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*****

The next pawful of days passed uneventfully, unless you count Bagoum dropping twelve straight shove-copper matches to me. The stakes were comparatively low: the ram had to mow both the front and the back yard of the bungalow, a task that he performed cheerfully. In no small measure because I think he ate the clippings.

The merchants were paid off with the proceeds from the Bazar, to varying degrees of surprise. The tailor accepted his partial payment (in gold, thank you very much) with a sour, suspicious air. He bit every last coin, which I thought was a rather flagrant breach of manners. As he was the only military tailor in town, he had, I suppose, a certain element of the autocratic about him.

Lieutenant Chitterleigh was indeed appointed the "friend in court" of Pte. Flood, the squaddie who was up on the Article Four charge. It wasn't clear to me how he was preparing for the court-martial, except that he started playing me in shove-copper. He was quite good at the game itself. Less good at concealing the magic he was using to simulate cheating, though after some practice, he was able to formulate Gramerye without too much lip-movement. I made no comment one way or the other, though I could tell he was hoping that I would catch him out.

Another delivery of interest came by paw. Or perhaps more accurately, by ant. A very smart looking Lieutenant from the cavalry, accompanied by a trooper, scuttled to the bungalow one morning as I was sweeping the walk. With practiced ease, the officer slid off his ant, bounded with a hop onto the walk, and walked through the door as I held it open and announced him.

While he was on his business, I watched up close as the trooper reached into a bag and began to feed both his mount and the Lieutenant's mount with bits of fungi. The ants, with soft gronking, quickly scented the treats and seized them with their mandibles, the trooper moving his paw aside just in time so as not to have it crushed.

When I was young, I remember seeing farmworker-ants in a sulky mood snap the handles of hoes and rakes, and if you didn't watch them closely, a hungry ant could easily devour a low-hanging fruit tree branch.

These ants were far different from the ants I saw drawing a plough; instead of being small, hairy and rust-coloured, they had glossy, rounded black forms. The carapace of each ant was buffed to a glow, and even the mandibles were polished, which must have been some class of a dangerous job.

I did notice that the trooper was missing part of one of his fingers.

He feigned indifference as I admired the ants, though it was pretty clear that he took enormous pride in both his own and his officer's, and it was well-deserved. They were the sort of ants you saw in the picture-books showing long-ago battles, with whole squadrons of mounted archers.

It made me think how long it had been since there were any mounted archers in the Imperial and Royal Army. That sort of thing had gone out of fashion, I'd been led to believe.

I could hear some formal good-byes being said inside the bungalow, and I was just in time to open the front door and salute. I was the recipient of a very smart, heel-clicking salute. It felt good even receiving it.

Chitterleigh was seated at a table in the main room, finishing up a glass of wine.

"By Fuma's ears, Winterbough, it's a dashed good thing you've got this place looking smart. Y'know who that was?"

"A cavalry officer, sir?"

"Good heavens! Not just any cavalry officer, Winterbough: that was a messenger from the Household Cavalry. Not just your run of the mill troop."

"There is such a thing, sir?"

"Hah. Point well taken. Well, some unit has to be average, and some unit has to be the best, Private, and let me tell you, no elf, least of all a trooper in the Household, is going to dispute who is tops on ants. In any event, the Colonel of the Regiment has invited me to dine with him the day after tomorrow. Again, lucky for me for you've found where all my kit is. Shouldn't want to explain where my sword is. The Colonel would tell the old man in a shot, and then I'd be for it."

"Where is the function, sir?"

"Oh, over at the Household Barracks, hard by the Palace. Better hire up a carriage, Winterbough, for the two of us. Wouldn't do to show up on our footpads, eh?"

"'Us,' sir?"

He showed me the invitation. "Says it right here. Officers to bring their servants. Better get out your "A" service uniform, Private, there's a good fellow. And make sure the backs of your buttons are shined up. They'll check 'em, sure as you know."

On my way back from the FAFI to pick up some more Brassine ("The Proven Parade Powder"), I slipped into GHQ to keep Sergeant Wing up to date. Even if he knew nearly everything I told him, the fact that I was reasonably diligent in making a report to him got me a check-mark.

He wagged a feather at me. "Now, look 'ere, lad, you be on yer guard at th' do. Th' Colonel may look like a blinkered idiot, an' he may act like one, but he's nobody's fool, see? Yer don't survive as much as 'ee as on charm alone."

"But Sergeant, I'm only a servant there. I'll be invisible, won't I?"

"Not to 'im, yer won't. 'ee'll spot yer a mile orf."

"I don't understand, Sergeant."

"Well. Don't matter if yer don't. Just you be on yer guard, an' fer Fuma's sake, if 'ee does speak ter yer, tell th' whole blinkin' truth."

I indicated that an Article Four proceeding was not to my taste.

"Speakin' o' that, what's yer officer up t' wit' bein' a friend in court?"

"I couldn't say, Sergeant. I think it's some sort of feeling he has. He seems to take the matter a little personally. He's been studying shove-copper quite a bit."

Sergeant Wing rubbed the underside of his beak. "Hmmmm. Got a notion of what 'ee's up to, lad?"

"Actually, I think I do."

"Well, keep it unner yer hat, Winterbough, an' fer that matter, keep yerself unner yer hat."

Old Imperial and Royal Army joke, that. Even my mother knew it.

After spending a night with the leather polish, tunic-brush and Brassine on both my uniform and the Lieutenant's, on the appointed day a rather smart one-ant growler deposited both of us at the door of the Bloody Marsh Barracks.

(That's a reference to one of the Household Cavalry's greatest victories, in case you're wondering. A masterpiece of ant-maneuver that drove an enemy to flounder or drown in the mire, destroying nearly an entire army that had outnumbered our side three-to-one at cost of literally no casualties to the H.C. We studied it during training, even if we were never going to ride a glossy ant to war.)

The Lieutenant had his hat taken at the door by a deferential sergeant, and was ushered by a trooper through a gleaming foyer toward the sound of a small orchestra. For my part, this same sergeant whirled on me and gave me a minute inspection. I half-expected him to turn me upside down and shake me. He did make me open my mouth, so that he could smell my breath and check my teeth. From the tip of my rack to the edge of my hoof, I got the sharp-eye. Eventually, I was dismissed, with a snarled admonition to keep my paws to myself, and not to touch a morsel of the food, if I valued my life.

A trooper-servant escorted me into a large room paneled with rare woods on the walls, and equally rare tropical woods on the floor. There were a number of guests already present, with the officers in their best. Which meant, for the Household Cavalry officers, full medals and what appeared to be truesilver braid, ropes of it. There were a number of ladies present. Too early in the day to wear full jewelry, not that a one of them would have needed it. These were the type of lady-elves for whom simplicity was a definite virtue, and who probably would have bested any Lowfolk femme, spot the latter ropes of pearls and jewels even.

I'm not sure precisely what my role was, since the trooper-servants were doing all of the work, mixing and serving drinks and serving small morsels among the guests. There was only one other non-Cavalry soldier-servant there, a rather astonished-looking private, who could only mumble "By 'eck" every so often in a hushed, reverent tone.

One thing I did notice, somewhat to my comfort, was that there was a whole sense of magic in the air, and I don't mean in the sense that you read about in the cheap story-scrolls. I mean the real stuff. Glancing around, I could see that some of it was emanating from a variety of trophies hung around the walls, weapons from long-ago battles. Some of it might have been coming from the wood, which was probably harvested from a particular forest. But some of it was definitely coming from the guests themselves. Not that they were casting spells, which would have been regarded as crude. There's something about some elves that you can't put a finger on, but it's there all the same. It's the sort of thing that makes you stand up straighter and square out your shoulders, even when it's coming from a wizened old femmefur with an ear trumpet. And there was one of those.

The quotient of magic, though, took a noticeable jump when the host made his entrance. Not, mark you, that it's hard to miss a tall, champagne-furred skunk wearing an eyepatch, a true-silver arm and paw, and a set of spectacular side-whiskers.

"Gweetings, my good fwiends and wovewy wadies!"

Yes, like a lot of cavalry officers, he affected a speech impediment. I'll bet it didn't hurt him any on the parade-ground, though. It certainly didn't hurt him here, as he circulated among the guests. The ladies (even the one with the ear trumpet) were eager to chat with him, and the Colonel was all polish and manners with them. Even more so to the old lady, who was thoroughly delighted with the attention, and gripped his metal paw with emphasis. The officers, likewise, stuck out their chests and were grinning from ear to ear as they got chaffed.

Chitterleigh, I noticed, was greeted with a great deal of affection, even to the point of getting his cheek patted. The Colonel whispered into his ear, which promptly turned red. I followed the Lieutenant's gaze, and I could see why he blushed. Blushing back at him was a squirrel femme, partially hiding her face behind a fan.

Interesting.

Curiously (at least to someone not in the Army), the Colonel's yellow silk tunic bore no braid, no insignia beyond a small one on each shoulder, and only one small medal. Considering that he was the only current recipient of the Truesilver Palm still living, any other decoration would have been superfluous.

A series of chimes announced the meal, and each elf escorted another elf into the dining room. By some kind of coincidence, more likely some cunning design, Lieutenant Chitterleigh found himself escorting the lady squirrel, arm in arm.

The sergeant made his reappearance, approached the two of us soldier-servants not members of the Cavalry, and ordered us to slip into the dining room and stand behind our officers' chairs, and if we made a sound, he'd skin the lot of us alive.

Mark you, it took some work not to make a sound, and my fellow-servant had to bite back another "By 'eck!" The dining room was aglow with truesilver dining implements, on the sideboards and especially on the table. Sparkling wine buckets, charger-plates, flatware, candlesticks, serving-platters, the whole works. I would imagine you could have bought my entire native county with the table-setting, and still have quite a lot left over.

Candlelight on truesilver, by the way, generates quite a lot of magical effects.

Lunch was a very jolly affair, helped along by generous rations of sparkling wine and fast wit. I had to admit that the Cavalry's soldier-servants were first class, and nearly invisible as they served and cleared. It made me feel very inadequate as a batman, down to the fact that I was wearing brass buttons and they were wearing truesilver breast-plates.

The Colonel, at the head of the table, was in rare form, judging from the delighted laughter rippling out. The elderly femmefur, ear-trumpet and all, had been escorted to sit next to him, and she was thoroughly enjoying herself.

I was standing behind my officer, so I couldn't really see how he was doing. He did not seem to be saying much. I could see the lady squirrel very clearly, since she was seated opposite him. She said very little, either; she mostly looked down at her plate, occasionally sneaking a glance upward and straight ahead.

"Is that not twue, Mister Chitterweigh?"

The entire room fell silent, as the Colonel looked down the table at the Lieutenant, who shifted in his seat rather uneasily.

"Must I wepeat the qwestion, Mister Chitterweigh?"

"I'm afraid you must, sir. I confess I wasn't listening to a word you said."

The Colonel raised both eyebrows and looked down his nose. "Gwacious, Mister Chitterweigh! Can you expwain yourself?"

The old femmefur, who had been listening in eagerly with her ear trumpet, cackled gleefully.

"Because you're not the prettiest in the room, Briarrose!"

The Colonel turned to the interlocutor, astonished, and then broke out in a boom of laughter that you didn't need an ear-trumpet to hear. He turned back to the table, and looked down toward my area.

"Am I not the pwettiest in the woom, Mister Chitterweigh?"

"Are you asking for an opinion or a statement of fact, Colonel?"

The Colonel stroked his lush side-whiskers in amusement.

"It is not a matter subject to verwacity, Mister Chitterweigh. Pewwmission gwanted for opinion."

"No, sir, you are not."

This time, the entire room erupted in laughter, save for my officer and the lady squirrel, who softly chittered and blushed.

The Colonel, still chuckling, looked up. I could tell, by glancing sideways (but you better believe not moving my head) that he was looking at me, curiously.

"Is that your gwoom, Mister Chitterweigh?"

"Yes, sir. Brand-new chap."

"Heavens. He is a wittle woebuck. Why, I can bawewe see him behind your tail. Vewwy pwactical, a pocket woebuck."

I kept a straight, unflinching face as I was briefly the centre of attention, but the moment passed, and the conversation eddied somewhere else.

Eventually, the last course was served, and the ladies left the room, led by the old femmefur (who got a kiss on the paw from the Colonel). As the conversation would no doubt turn to shop-talk, the soldier-servants were dismissed. My mate and I were led to the kitchen, and seated at a rough table far in the back.

I have to say, even the scraps and leftovers from the luncheon was some of the best food I had ever eaten. The other batman thought so, too. After he had his pudding, he let out a soft belch, accompanied by a contented "By 'eck!"

My own ration of pudding was my focus, but some kind of feeling inside suddenly made me put down the plate and fork with a clatter, and scramble to my hooves, standing at attention. A soft padding and a looming shadow a few seconds later told me that I was correct to get standing, and fast. My mate scrambled to his footpads, whipped off a salute, and stood at attention as well when he saw who was standing behind me.

"I wegwet interwuppting your meal, but I was curious. Name and wank?"

My mate flickered his eyes at me. Apparently, the comment was not directed to him.

"Pte. Winterbough, W., 612397, sir!"

The Colonel padded around me, and fixed a monocle in his one good eye with his truesilver paw. He peered at me very closely.

"Have we met, Pwivate?"

"Sir, no sir!"

"Are you certain, Pwivate?"

"Yes, sir!"

"How vewwy pecuwur, Pwivate. Where are you fwom?"

"Vale of Elfhame, sir."

"Interwesting."

I said nothing, but looked straight ahead. The Colonel faced me, straight on, looking me in the eye. I could feel sweat dripping down my cheek into my tunic-collar. He leaned in, and dropped his voice to a quiet pitch.

"I knew a Winterbough fwom Effhame. A Winterbough, W. Two Winterboughs, W and a Winterbough, F., in fact. Do you have a welative named Stewwa, by any chance?"

I swallowed, hard. "Not living, sir," I whispered.

"But you did, cowwect?"

"Yes, sir."

His eyes narrowed. "Mother?"

At that point, my mouth went dry, and I could only nod.

There was a long silence, which was eventually broken by the Colonel speaking in a very low voice, close to my ears.

"Be vewwy, vewwy careful, Pwivate. It's not ownwy the Colonels who get the awwows."

He stood up again, and gave a half salute. "As you were, lads."

With that, he seemed to vanish from the kitchen.

The cat looked at me, slack-jawed. "Fuma's round pair, mate, wot' th' bloody hell was that?"

I could only shrug my shoulders. "Not sure, mate. Not sure."